


The Ghost and his Lady

by BozBozBoz



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: 13 Days of Halloween Writing Challenge, F/M, Halloween, Horror, POTO 13 Days of Halloween 2020, Spooky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27302923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BozBozBoz/pseuds/BozBozBoz
Summary: On the night of the Ball Masque Christine Daae returns to the house on the lake to be with her Angel forever.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 13
Kudos: 41





	The Ghost and his Lady

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a-partofthenarrative's Tumblr POTO 13 Nights of Halloween.

The Opera Ghost really did exist. Ask any of the other occupants of the Palais Garnier and they could tell you that they had seen him. Little Jammes could tell you how he wore dress clothes and could disappear through walls, while, if you asked him, Joseph Buquet could regale you with tales of his paper thin skin stretched tight over a skull with deep, unseeing eye sockets. Even honest Pampin the fireman could tell you of how he encountered his flaming head, detached from its body floating at the level of his eyes. 

Oh yes, almost anyone could tell you about their encounters with the ghost, but only Christine Daae had ever heard him sing. Only Christine Daae knew of the power and dangerous sensuality which lurked behind that heavenly voice. That was why, on the eve of the ball masque only Christine Daae found herself sitting alone in her dressing room, staring at the mirror, her hands nervously twisting in her lap, instead of losing herself in the debauched revelry which continued just outside her door.

She had seen him already that night, stalking the halls dressed as The Red Death. They had danced together for almost half the night, heedless of the stares of those about them, until her head spun and the breath in her lungs burned with the effort. Even when they had not been together, she seemed to know whereabouts he was in the room, as if her very atoms were drawn towards his presence, and when his voice had whispered in her ear, in that way that only he could so nobody else could hear, she had willingly rushed to her dressing room to await him. But now he was not there, and away from his intoxicating presence her blood began to cool and doubt crept back in.

She thought of Raoul. Dear, sweet Raoul who wished to save her from the monster, little knowing that the monster that she needed to fight lay within herself. He was so eager, so earnest - he would save her if she asked, and oh! how tempted she had been to ask. She did not delude herself that she could ever be his wife. Of course, he believed himself to be in love with her, and perhaps he was, but she was a chorus girl, and chorus girls do not become Vicomtesses. Still, as the mistress of a Vicomte she would have access to every luxury she could ever desire, except, perhaps, music. No, Raoul could never give her that, not like  _ he  _ could.  _ His  _ music spoke to her soul. It promised her something so raw and primal, so  _ alive, _ that try as she might she could not resist it, no matter how terrified it made her feel.

That is why she remained now, one eye half trained on the door, her feet poised as if to fly, but her soul straining for just one hint, one whisper of his presence. When he was gone the doubt and fear crept in, true, and she had reason to. She still recalled his reaction that night when she had so thoughtlessly removed his mask. His rage had been so palpable that the very air in the room seemed to chill with it, his presence somehow growing and pulsing with the emotion until it felt like he was not just in front of her, but all around her, screaming his despair in his ears. But he was also capable of such kindness and gentleness. As if he existed only to serve her every whim. In the days following he had grovelled and begged for her forgiveness, kissing the hem of her skirt in such a piteous way that it made the tears stand in her eyes, and she wanted to scream at him to stop. She had burned all his masks after that, and promised him that if she ever trembled to look upon its face it was because she was trembling to be in the presence of such genius. 

It was not entirely a lie. 

Despite his hideous appearance, her strange maestro was surprisingly easy to live with. He would read for her, play for her and provided her with every luxury. He never seemed to be in the way - he was simply there when she needed him, and when she didn’t, he was not. He was always respectful, always solicitous of her comfort, and when they sang together,  _ ah,  _ what bliss... It was in those moments that Christine truly knew what it meant to feel whole again. That was why she waited for him again now, and why she knew that ultimately, she would always return to him.

A prickling on the back of her neck alerted her to his impending presence. A sudden cold chill washing over her which caused her skin to pimple and her pulse to race. No sooner had she felt it than his voice, his heavenly voice filled her ears, seeming to come from every corner of the room at once. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she drew a shaking breath. When she reopened them again, he was there, tall and imposing in his costume, present, yet somehow always seeming to be just that little bit of her reach. 

She had not heard him enter. Though the sound of his voice had never faltered, she had not heard the click of the catch on the mirror, or the sound of her dressing room door opening to admit him. It was as if he had simply materialised before her, somehow summoned by her longing. It was often the case - she would find herself thinking of him, and then silently he would appear, his tread, so assured and deliborate, yet silent as a cat. It was no wonder that the ballet girls believed he could pass through walls.

“You are late.” she stated simply, her heart pounding in her chest and an overwhelming sense of relief washing over her, as if she had been suffocating without him and he was her only source of air.

He said nothing, only continuing to sing with the voice of an angel - the wedding night song from Romeo and Juliet. Had anyone ever sounded more passionately stirring than he when he sung those words? She felt certain they had not - even with his face of death there was nobody more beautiful than him in that moment, and when he held out his hand and beckoned to her she took it willingly, stepping eagerly over the threshold of the mirror and into the darkness behind.

His hand was cold and clammy to the touch, but she did not flinch, even as the chill seemed to creep from his fingers into her very bones. Instead she drew closer to him, breathing in that strange smell of musky earthiness, mingled with something sweet and cloying that always seemed to linger about him as he led her on into the bowels of the opera house and she found herself once more standing in the house beside the lake.

‘Do you tremble, my Christine?’ he asked, his voice soft like the rusting of silk. ‘Do not fear your Erik. He means you no harm. He only wishes for you to love him. He would place his whole world at your feet and make you his queen, if only you loved him Christine.’

His long spindly finger stroked skimmed across her jawbone, and hovered lightly over her hair, reaching, but never quite touching.

‘Oh! How can you say that?’ she moaned.

‘You must love me!’ he cried, desperation lacing his beautiful voice, and a strange fire dancing in his eyes. ‘Say it! Say you are mine and mine alone!’

‘You know I sing only for you!’ she cried desperately. ‘How can you doubt me and ask for more? I have given you my soul and now I am dead!’

His eyes flashed dangerously and she felt his breath wash cooly over her skin.

‘Your would give me your soul?’ he whispered seductively. ‘Your soul is a precious gift my child. No emperor has ever received so fair a gift.’ 

His arm snaked over her shoulders, pulling her close to his chest and her head swam with the overwhelming closeness of him, the blood in her veins thrilling at every touch.

‘Promise me,’ he hissed, trailing feather light touch down her side so that her knees trembled and her head fell back onto his shoulder, her eyes closing in ecstasy. ‘Do you promise to be mine alone? Will you consent to be my living bride? Tell me now once and for all, and I shall make you mine forever.

Her head span and her pulse throbbed wildly at the contact. She knew that she ought to resist, out to say no, but even as the thought flitted across her mind she knew that she would not, she could not.

‘Yes, Erik’ she replied rapturously. ‘Yes - I am yours!’ 

Cold lips descended over hers, his hands claiming her roughly until it seemed to Christine that he was everywhere, not just next to her and on her, but all around her and within her. Her body trembled and a fever spiked within her skin as she felt herself succumbing to the ecstasy that he created, joy and fear and pleasure mingling within her until she could not tell where she began and where she ended and she knew she was lost to the night and all its sensations.

Christine woke alone. The Louis Philippe room felt strangely cold and quiet, and Christine felt a strange emptiness, as if some integral piece of her had suddenly been lost. She reached an arm across the bed, seeking out Erik and expecting to find him beside her, but he was not there. Shivering, she rose and slipped from the room to go in search of him. 

The sitting room was silent and dark, all the lamps quenched, forcing her to return to her room and bring with her the lamp from her bedside, which flickered and cast strange moving shadows about the walls as she moved. She frowned as she noticed the thick layer of dust that covered the furnishings. The bouquets of flowers, normally so bright and cloyingly perfumed, crumbled in their vases, their sweet rotten smell adding to the dank, musty smell of the house. She shuddered slightly and pulled her wrapper tightly about her, the waft of its fabric stirring the stale air of the room about her. How long had she been sleeping?

‘Erik?’ she called, straining her ears to catch a whisper of his presence in the gloom, but all that answered her was the strange dull echo of her voice.

Slowly, she made her way through the house beside the lake, calling out as she went, her searching finding each subsequent room empty, until there was nowhere else to check except Erik’s music room. Surely, she would find him there, engrossed in one of his compositions, and he would be able to explain the strange appearance in the sitting room. Perhaps she had been ill, and she had lost track of time? She placed her hand on her own forehead, testing it’s temperature. It felt cool, and slightly clammy with her own perspiration. 

The music room door was ajar, and no light nor sound of life seemed to come from within. She pushed it gingerly with her toe, swinging it open to reveal the room within. A mess of paper littered every surface and they crackled and rustled in the draft created by the swinging door, but there was no sign of Erik. Here too was a layer of thick dust coating everything. It appeared that he had not composed or touched his instruments for some time, and a sickening dread began to settle in her stomach. 

Where was he? She had searched every room now, and it was not like him to be away for long. She had always been able to find him easily - the certain knowledge of his constant presence, always lingering somewhere nearby had been one of her greatest reassurances, and most secret fears. She swallowed thickly and returned down the dark corridor to stand before the one door in the house that she had not tried. The only door in the house that he had ever forbidden her to enter.

‘You are very welcome in Erik’s house,’ he had told her on her first night with him, ‘But please, remember, you must never, ever enter Erik’s room. It would be a bad business for you and a goodly number of the human race if you ever enter there.’

Of course she had been curious, but she accepted that her maestro was a strange, and possibly dangerous man, and she did not wish to risk rousing his anger again, so she had simply acquiesced, and they said no more about it. Now, she stood with her hand trembling on the doorknob, willing herself to find the courage to enter. She did not wish to invade his privacy, but what if he were unwell in there? What if they had both been taken unwell at the same time, and she had been unable to help him. Could that explain the suddenly strange appearance of the house?

‘Erik?’ she called softly, putting her mouth to the edge of the door. ‘Erik? Are you in there?’

An eerie silence was her only response.

‘Erik? Please, I am starting to feel frightened. Please answer me!’ she cried, battling to keep the rising hysteria from her voice. Still there was no reply.

‘I am going to come in!’ she announced defiantly. ‘If you do not answer me soon, I shall do it!’ her hand rattled the knob experimentally, and she paused, half expecting for it to suddenly jerk away from her and for his strange yellow eyes to appear burning in the doorway to demand answers for her sudden interruption, but they did not come.

Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle, and the latch emitted a hollow clunk. Pushing it open a fraction she placed her face to the gap and called loudly. ‘I am sorry, I am coming in, please do not be angry!’ and she pushed her way forward, stepping into the otherwise pitch black room. 

Her feet came to an abrupt halt as she crossed the threshold, and a wave of sickly sweet smell hit the back of her throat. She let out a harsh gagging cough and clamped her hand to her mouth and nose. Here then was the source of the strange smell that always pervaded Erik’s house, and which clung to his very person. 

‘Erik?’ she called in a small voice. Still there was no reply.

Lifting her lamp, she peered into the gloom of the room before her. There appeared to be little or no furniture within, except for a large object set upon a stand in its centre. She stepped forward a pace or two to get a better look. It appeared to be a coffin.

‘Oh God!’ she whispered, unable to take her eyes off the horrible object which lay before her. Why on earth would he have such a thing in his room. Did he  _ sleep _ in that? A convulsive shiver ran across her skin, and steeling herself she stepped forward again to get a better look. The lid was open, and from this distance she could clearly see that something, or someone was lying within it.

‘Erik?’ she called again, her voice no more than a croak. ‘Can you hear me? Please, master, wake!’

Gingerly she crossed to the side of the coffin and peered over its edge. 

Within lay her maestro, dressed, as always in full formal attire, his frame so thin that in his stillness they seemed to be little more than coverings for bones. His mask was off, and the full horror of his face was once again on display, his thin lips stretched over yellowing teeth, sunken cheeks outlining sharp cheekbones, punctuated by the dark chasm where his nose should have been. On his head only a few scraps of hair lay whispily over yellow papery looking skin. 

She frowned, noticing that he clutched a bouquet of roses to his chest, similar to those arrangements which he normally set all about the living room, and which had appeared so dead and dried only moments ago. This one remained fresh, it’s sweet fragrance adding a fresh note to the otherwise sickening aroma of the room.

Slowly, as if driven by some external force she raised a trembling hand and reached toward his face. She had never seen him in repose, and it seemed odd not to see those strange lamp-like eyes gleaming out from within those deep sunken sockets. It was only when her fingers were mere millimeters away from touching him that she realised that they were not closed at all. The lids remained stretched wide open, and the sunken eyes stared out at her from within, their light completely extinguished. 

She drew a sharp breath, and at that moment her fingertips made contact with his cheekbone, and instead of his usual clammy coldness, met nothing but brittle dry skin. She flinched, and her fingers jerked convulsively, fingernails catching against the paper surface, pulling away a large chunk, and she watched in horror as her maestro’s hideous face collapsed inwardly in front of her, a huge cavern opening up where his mouth would be filled with nothing but dust.

Letting out a strangled cry, she jerked her hand back, staggering backwards and dropping the lamp onto the floor where it extinguished immediately. She fell to the floor with a hard jolt, and skittered backwards until her her back hit the wall, her breath coming in shallow rattling gasps,. Her fingers clawed helplessly at her sides, and she rocked back and forth hugging herself tightly and tried to fight the rising wave of panic as the darkness seemed to close in all about her.

Then suddenly she felt the hairs on the back of her neck begin to lift, and her pulse began to slow, as she felt his calming presence wash over her.

‘Erik?’ she whispered in a small fragile voice.

The reply seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. Or perhaps it came from within her?

‘Ah, my Christine!’ he crooned. ‘Did I not warn you it was a corpse who loved you, and would never, ever leave you?’

A tear slid down her cheek, and she felt a waft of air brush it away.

‘Does Christine mourn for her Erik?’ a slow chuckle reverberated about the room. ‘Silly child. You shall never be rid of me now.’

The air about her seemed to thrum, and Christine’s ears were filled with the most glorious, divine music.

‘Come to me, my angel.’ the voice commanded, ‘My living bride! Come to me and I shall be your eternal slave.’

Slowly, Christine rose on shaking legs and made her way blindly towards the side of the coffin. Her outstretched hand made contact with the bouquet of roses, and as her small fingers closed about it, she felt a wave of contentment wash over her, and her voice rose about her in song, strong and unbidden. 

‘Holy Angel, in Heaven blessed! My spirit longs with thee to rest!’

Sighing, she clutched the bouquet to her own chest, and lifted herself, first one leg, then the other into the coffin, feeling the bones of her maestro crumble and shift about her as she came to rest next to him, her face nestled into the crook of his shoulder, breathing in the dust of his claim her again, once and for all...

So you see, the opera ghost really did exist. And if you don’t believe me, you can see for yourself. Look up to box five on the night of the next performance, and if you are lucky you will see them there, dressed in full formal attire - the Opera Ghost and his Lady.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Trick of the Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795868) by [Jabberwocky94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jabberwocky94/pseuds/Jabberwocky94)




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